


Pandoran Xenobiology For Fun and Profit

by callmearcturus



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Altered States, Other, Oviposition, Tentacle Sex, Trans Male Character, Unabashed Porn, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 14:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5166836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/callmearcturus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Profit not guaranteed. Fun definitely is, though.</p>
<p>Ridiculous unrepentant kink fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pandoran Xenobiology For Fun and Profit

**Author's Note:**

> There is no excuse for this. Thanks to Ren for helping with the original draft and Ledgem for encouraging the post-Episode 5 rewrite.

When Rhys settles into the Atlas dome, there are two things he’s not short on: fruit to eat and files to read.

It takes scoping out the entire dome to locate the backup file stores, but it’s worth it for the reading material. He’s alone at the dome, almost desperately alone. Having to rebuild a limb and his eye occupies him for a while, but before long that project is complete and Rhys needs to figure out what comes next for him. 

That means he needs to figure out what Atlas was up to before he got his hands on the keys to the kingdom, to see where he should take it. 

He reads up on the dome itself first, because it’s where he’s staying for now and he figures it’s smart to know what he’s dealing with. The dome is weird, quiet, and while there are a few problems around ( _why_ did Atlas decide to keep a varkid habitat, seriously?) it’s safe by Pandoran standards. 

At least, safe enough that he ventures into the dome regularly to pick more fruit and explore the area. 

He’s reading through the specimen research when he comes across a file with more revisions and addendums than any other. It’s the file on the spores, the floaty, usually docile creatures he’d run into with Sasha before. As simplistic as the creatures had seemed, the Atlas researchers around the Dome had a lot to say about them.

Unfortunately, Rhys only has pieces of data.

 

_Addendum 46: Laferrety and Hu requested permission to perform long-term research on spores. Denied them, told them to stop exploiting the wildlife. Never get into an argument with an ethicist about this shit._

 

_Addendum 24: All researchers taken by the spore flock cleared by medical. All of them are fine. Or, “fine.” Some of them seemed to actually enjoy the catastrophe._

 

_Addendum 20: This planet’s fucking ridiculous and whoever imported the spores from Aegrus needs to be fired. Count of missing personnel is now seven._

 

It’s a shame that it takes so long for the files to decrypt. Rhys had to recode his hacking programs from scratch after the loss of his arm and its on-board memory. So, he’s batch decrypting hundreds of files with little control on what finishes when. It’s frustrating and time consuming. 

There’s a lot of down time. Which… is good. Rhys is still raw from everything that happened, all the things he had to do to make it out of the Helios crash alive. Having time is not a hardship. 

And the Dome is pretty, good for walks to clear his head when everything seems a little too loud inside him. 

Rhys walks around a flock of the spores, watching them curiously. He’s seen what they’re like when they’re angered, but otherwise seem completely harmless. The records imply otherwise, though Rhys has yet to find the specifics. It’s one of the topics he’s eagerly waiting for updates on, feeding the reports directly into his new ECHOeye to read as they decrypt. 

He has access to the death logs for the facility. No one was killed by the spores. Someone was eaten by a giant carnivorous flower, but no spore deaths. That’s a comfort. 

A tickle against his ear makes him startle and look up. There’s a spore drifting close to him. There are a few, actually, floating lazily toward him. The idea that these things are social, that they might feel lonely after so long unwatched, crosses his mind. Before he can give much consideration to spore intelligence, the one above his head drags its wavy, ribboned tendrils across his face. He yelps at the shiver of electricity it gives him, his nose and cheek going numb from the feeling. He lifts his arm to try and push the new spore away. “Hey, come on, knock it off.” 

He doesn’t expect it when the spore’s three ribbons latch onto his metal arm. They move with a strange swiftness, looping around his arm right under the elbow, tendrils wrapping over and around each other. 

“Oh, for—“ Like this, it’s easy to pull the spore down to his eye level and work his hand into the folded ribbons. The texture is the same velvety feeling from the creature’s head, but now Rhys can feel the way the tendrils have wrapped around each other, using the friction to hold fast onto him. 

He tries to just wave the thing off his arm, but after a few seconds, his arm’s movements become jerky and slow. Something with the biomagnetic field is toying with his cybernetics. He curses and tries to just pry the thing off, but his fingers go numb before he can even finish peeling one tendril off. 

“Okay, this is just getting annoying. I— _what—_ “ He’s cut off as another spore bumps insistently into the back of his head, its trailing tendrils against his neck. The numbing feeling is ticklish more than anything. 

Once again, Rhys tries to bat it away, and once again it responds by looping itself around him. 

His cybernetic arm’s shorting out. He can barely see it through the softly glowing ribbons wrapped around it, but the connections are jerking, tension at the junction in his shoulder. It stops abruptly, which is something of a relief; better to have it go fully offline then shake itself into disrepair. He doesn’t want to build _another_ one already. Besides, he still has his other arm and everything’s fine. 

It’s then that another one of the creatures drops right on his head, its long, soft arms slipping sinuously around his temples, over his eyes, and looping around his neck. The effect is almost immediate; he feels the warm shivery feeling press right into his skin as the grip on his head grows firm. It all sinks into him, the weird dissonance of it, the sensation like being dunked into chilly water butting against the almost comforting pressure wrapped snugly around him. 

It’s pressed over his nose and he inhales sharply, trying to pull away. The spore follows him with no effort, anchored to his face. There’s a prickly feeling as the metal and fiberoptics in his head light up, overcharging with a static sting before flickering. 

To be fair, Rhys does try to pull away. His valiant efforts dissolve before he can dislodge any of the spores. Another set of alien arms catch him, looping around his neck and under his arm as a new one affixes itself to his chest. The shivery feeling against his skin is starting to get out of hand. What was just a distraction before is growing exponentially, and underneath the numbness that comes from the creatures’ touch is a fuzzy cottony feeling that’s suffusing through his body. It’s strongest in his head, flowing like hot syrup down into his body. It’s a cloying feeling, like electric gel, and he starts having trouble keeping up with what’s happening. 

Another one of the things bumps into him from behind, its arms already probing, wrapping around his chest. He’s panting from the fear for a moment before his breathing evens out into something steady and deep. This feels like being held down under something viscous and thick, so thick his worry can’t make it through to him. 

This is not normal. He still _knows_ that, so Rhys opens his mouth to shout. But the numbness has sunk into his skin, leaving his throat numb, the only sound from his mouth devoid of syllables, just a soft cry. 

No one is around to hear anyway.

Rhys is dizzy, enough that he would fall over if the spores weren’t holding him upright. He didn’t know they could _do_ that; they’d bounced off his hands before, weightless, but now his feet fumble on the uneven ground and they keep him aloft. 

Through the shivery haze that’s settled on his mind, he realizes that with so many of them, they can do that. One spore doesn’t have a hope, but with-- with five of them? Maybe more? It’s becoming hard to tell, all the gentle yet unbreakable holds on him overlapping. With so many of them, the prospect of lifting Rhys is not so far-fetched. 

It’s becoming worryingly likely, actually. The mass clinging to him like amorous balloons suddenly swings sharply to the right. Rhys stumbles, trying to keep up, but his knees buckle, and he thinks he’s going to fall to the jungle floor. 

Instead, he feels a firm grip on one of his ankles, lifting upward until his foot leaves the ground entirely. Soon, he’s precariously balanced on just one foot, and even then his heel drags through the grass as he’s pulled along. He has no leverage, nothing he can do but try to keep track of the ribbons wrapping around him. Yet another set grabs his thigh, and his foot leaves the ground for a moment, dropping back down and bouncing back into the air as the creatures seem to struggle to get him airborne. 

If there’s a time to panic, it’s now, but it’s just not happening. Instead, as more cool static is pressed into his body, he has no choice but to go lax in the cradle he’s been drawn into. For a moment, he’s able to kick his entrapped leg, but soon his muscles betray him, limp in their grasp. He’s supine, head lolling and eyes starting to roll up against the onslaught of alien sensation. His breathing’s steady and measured, as though he were about to drop off into sleep at any second, and every attempt to work up the energy to move is like trying to force a boulder uphill. 

Tired from even the most feeble attempts, Rhys lets go, relaxed. 

It doesn’t take long for one more spore to show up, snatching up his free leg and taking him right off the ground. 

It’s the first thing that makes his heart speed up. He knows he’s in the air, but with the soft blue tendrils wrapped around his head, he can’t see how high he is, or where he’s going. Rhys whimpers, arching his back with tremendous strain before sagging back down. He’s helpless. 

The spore that’s cuddling his head tightens its tendrils around him. For a second, he thinks it’s going to hurt him, but its arms squeeze Rhys gently, then release, then squeeze again. He gets distracted, trying to figure out what it’s doing. 

By the time he realizes it’s trying to comfort or calm him, it’s already worked. He’s still again, easy in their grip. 

At least he’s not in mortal danger. The files on the spores weren’t fully accessible, but enough of them were that it’s clear to him that they aren’t going to kill him. Which is frankly more than he can say about a lot of Pandoran wildlife which would happily kill him or eat him or some macabre combination of the two. The spores are so careful with him… maybe it’s that or maybe it’s the weird fuzzy effect they’ve wrapped around him, but he feels… okay. He shouldn’t, but he does. 

Yeah. That can’t be normal. But even knowing that, Rhys shuts his eyes and drifts for a while, pliant in their grasp except for the few errant shivers that run down his spine. 

Man, he hopes they aren’t going to eat him. He’s not even sure how that would work, but it’d be embarrassing to be wrong about all this, to have survived so much just to be hauled off to be a meal for hypnotic air jellyfish things. 

Some time later, Rhys is set down. There’s finally something solid against his back, warm instead of the cool static of the spores. He’s able to fumble his hand down to pat the surface he’s on. Under his palm, it feels like moss, maybe, and stone underneath. He can’t tell much more about it and is still blindfolded. 

He’s let down gently, and a few of the ribbons slip almost slickly loose. Rhys falls flat on his back, still tingling all over. 

At least he’s not in the air anymore. They didn’t drop him. That’s a good sign, he thinks. 

He knows he should probably try to get up. He doesn’t really _want_ to, but he tries anyway. After a game attempt to get his arms under him and having both limbs ignore him completely, Rhys stops, laying back and waiting. 

The spore clutching his head finally shifts its hold on him, letting him look around with his one functioning eye. Wherever he’s been taken, it’s dark. He can hear dripping water nearby and a faint echo. Above him, he can see a dark, almost ribbed ceiling of stone with bright, glowing mushrooms and trailing plants hanging down. Up, nestling against the blue-white light, are more spores, meandering around and shifting hues, from blue to a rich green, then back again. 

It’s pretty. 

Rhys has _no idea_ where the hell he is. A cavern somewhere? He wants to lift his head to see if he can spot the mouth of cave, pinpoint where he came from, but his head won’t obey him. He can only lay there and watch the green spores float around. 

Eventually, other spores drift into his view. There’s something calm about watching them; he can’t move, wouldn’t be able to react even if he was thinking clearly enough to. It doesn’t feel urgent anyway. 

So he doesn’t do much but scrunch up his nose as the ribboned tendrils pet him. They slide over his face and forehead, the exposed skin at his collarbone, tucking under his sleeves and pants, shivery and cool. 

It’s when one curls around Rhys’ neck that he jerks out of his daze, cursing unhappily. He doesn’t like-- not his neck, not after _Jack_. 

Through the slush that his thoughts have become, Rhys can feel fear prickling through him as the severity of his situation settles on him, heavy like lead. He’s alone. He’s actually devastatingly alone. If he called for help, there was no one to come. 

The feeling catches in his chest like a sob, painful and sharp against his ribs. 

It’s then that another decrypted file pops up in his eye’s feed.

 

_Addendum 18: Two more scientists abducted. Since the security team was returned relatively unharmed, we’ve decided not to attack and instead wait for the creatures to finish with the scientists and return them._

 

They spores haven’t killed anyone. Rhys reminds himself of that over and over as tendrils lave over his face and neck, dipping under his clothes, like he’s being tasted by a dozen of dry alien tongues. The feathery touch is weird, but not terrible. The shivering static trailing after the tendrils is almost relaxing, like some kind of electro-massage that unlocks the tension from Rhys’ body. 

It’s almost an accident, how he lets his head sag back against the moss. He can’t move anyway, it’s hard not to be coaxed into… enjoying the attention. As depressing as it is, it’s been months since Rhys had any human contact and while this wasn’t really the same thing, it was something. It felt good. 

Too good. His breath hitches as he starts to-- oh no, he feels his bad tension change to a _good_ tension, warmth in his gut spreading like liquid warmth. He flushes all over as soon as he realizes what’s happening, once again struggling to get control of his limbs. He’d really like to push the groping tendrils away because he’s starting to feel just a little turned on and it’s awful. 

If anything, the spores seem to react to his new distress. The questing tendrils start to pull at his clothes, the red Atlas-brand sweater and the warm sweatpants Rhys has taken to wearing around the facility. They slide off too easily, and Rhys whines as his skin is exposed to the cool air. 

He doesn’t have time to worry about being naked in the middle of a laboratory jungle. The spore hovering near his head changes tactics. Its tendril flits over Rhys’ lips, shivery and warm. Still numb and useless, Rhys can’t do anything but watch as the spore sinks closer and its tendril slips into his mouth. 

It’s a singularly weird sensation. The numbness spreads quickly through his mouth as the tendril takes hold of his tongue, squeezing it. It’s… strange and feels like the spore is almost making out with him. He spares a vain thought to being flattered that his good looks work cross-species. 

He has enough time to notice the spore’s skin tastes heavy and floral, like imported honey, before it pushes further into him. It eases down Rhys throat, spreading the numbness. It’s almost a relief, since otherwise he’d start gagging as the tendril… deep throats him? 

The tendril slides in until Rhys shuts his eyes, letting out a muffled noise of protest at the intrusion. Luckily, that makes the spore stop, its tendril lingering in place for a moment before sliding right back out of Rhys’ mouth, leaving him gasping. He wants to lick his lips, but his tongue is useless like most of his limbs. He can feel a little bit of saliva escaping the corner of his mouth and is annoyed at how he can’t _do_ anything about it. 

That was just the precursor to the main event, it seems. The spore above him moves, drifting around until it’s hovering right over Rhys’ head. From here, Rhys can see the underbelly of the spore as it wiggles around, almost vibrating in place. 

There’s a glowing porous mouth and for a moment Rhys is worried that he’s about to be eaten after all. Before that dread can settle in, something more interesting happens. A colorful swirl surrounding the mouth starts to come apart, uncoiling slowly. It’d looked so much like the spore’s waxy sponge skin, Rhys hadn’t realized there was anything else there but now a long appendage unwinds itself. Inside, where it’d been hidden against its body, the skin looks translucent and fragile, glowing brightly with shifting hues-- green, then to a deep flush of blue. 

It’s vaguely round, cylindrical, and the tougher outer skin seems to be set against a long spine in the-- tube appendage. It bends slowly in the air, turning, like it’s stretching maybe. 

Then, the spore shifts and the-- tentacle, it’s a goddamn tentacle, it slips into Rhys’ open, inviting mouth. 

He huffs, trying to somehow get distance, like he can press himself further into the moss floor and away from the thing. The tentacle follows him with ease. It slips right over his tongue, more of that honey taste across his palette, before moving deeper. 

He can’t move to stop it gliding down his throat. There’s no resistance, and Rhys realizes the ribbon tendril was just a warm up for this. His throat muscles are quieted against the intrusion, letting the tentacle slide wetly down. It’s wider than the tendril was, but not by much; he can feel it against the sides of his throat, but it has room to shift and bend, finding its way down. 

Rhys digs his heels into the ground, the only thing he can do. The tentacle deep-throating him is the first thing to make something like real worry occur to him in a while, and he doesn’t know what to do but impotently wiggle around. The spore follows his weak attempts to move away until he gives in, laying still. 

As soon as he settles, the glow of the spore flares and flickers in what seems to be a pattern. Rhys can only tell there’s a rhythm to it when the other spores answer in kind, particularly the green ones floating by the cave ceiling. 

They start to sink down lazily as they mirror the soft flashing. 

That’s probably something to pay attention to, but soon Rhys has bigger problems. He sees it coming through the pale tube of the tentacle, a vibrant glow that works its way from the body of the spore, down and following the tentacle. It passes his lips and Rhys can feel the warmth against his tongue, through the tentacle. It passes deeper, down his throat, and blooming warmth pours what feels like directly into his stomach. 

Rhys kicks his legs weakly and groans. It’s warm, warm and heavy. Whatever is being poured into him is dense and heated, and he feels it all over. He lets out a whine as he swallows weakly around the tentacle. 

Heat suffuses outward as the--- stuff, whatever it is, settles in his belly. The warmth is almost a palpable thing in his veins, spreading outward to the rest of his body. It feels… good. It’s _luxuriously_ good, and Rhys’ eyes flutter shut as he lets it wash over him. At least now he doesn’t feel cold. 

The tentacle slides out of him again, and his head falls back against the mossy ground, boneless and drenched in sticky heat. He feels full, ready to just fall asleep. It’s only the new touches that pet over him that keep him from dozing comfortably. 

Upon forcing his eyes open again, he sees he’s surrounded by the spores, glowing green at him. There are so many, he’s not sure what’s going on anymore, just distracted by the soothing lights. 

His head’s lifted, and another tentacle pressing down his throat. Held up so, Rhys doesn’t have much choice but watch as he’s enfolded in tendrils, his flushed skin disappearing under the overlapping ribbons of the tendrils as they grope at his skin, pushing and pulling at him. His shoes are finally worked off his feet, and they disappear along with the clothes that had been stuck around his ankles. So divested, he’s fully naked, and the spores bend his legs, spreading them open wide. Held curled up and pressed on all sides by the spores, Rhys has no choice but to watch as one of the green spores affixes itself to his hips, its tendrils wrapping around the circumference of his waist. 

Rhys suddenly wonders what the hell these things did to the Atlas employees. And just how many times, because they’re very good at… at... 

The one at his hips just barely touches him at first, its feather ribbon contouring and sliding smoothly against him. The weird buzzing texture of them is even more obvious against painfully sensitive skin. It rubs against his folds and Rhys gasps around the tentacle in his mouth, garbled and shocked, knees drawing up as he tries to nudge it away. Oddly, it seems to understand, its touch lighter, easier for Rhys to stand, and… fuck, kind of _good_. 

It’d been months since he’d been touched and even longer since he’d gotten any action. It’s not his fault he shivers and feels himself get wet under the attention. The spore clearly knows what it’s doing. 

Another heavy load of warm syrupy stuff is deposited into his stomach, and Rhys groans when the tentacle withdraws, starting to feel overfull and _dosed_ on the stuff. It feels a little like being drunk, but calmer, and without Rhys’ usual habit of tipsily snickering at everything. The heat in his belly and the heat _lower_ , it mixes well into something drowning. Rhys moans thinly, canting his hips up into the tender feathering touch before he can stop himself. 

The worst part is that as Rhys starts to play along, willingly or not, the ribbon tendril _leaves him_. He’s upset, trying to see through all the spores and figure out why it stopped. His head is still held up by the one near his head, luckily. From his vantage point, he sees the green spore shifting, it’s underbelly tentacle unwinding and nudging firmly against him where he’s slick and desperate for _something_ , any kind of friction. 

“Uh,” Rhys manages as he watches the tentacle position itself. Using its hold on his hips and thighs, the spore pulls itself bodily closer, and Rhys’ face lolls back as the tentacle sinks into him in one long thrust. “Uh, _fuck_!” 

He can feel it, even through the electric numbing. He’s unable to move, but he can _feel_ it all, and its luxuriously hot and steady, the way the tentacle seats deep in him. 

It moves until he flinches, too tight for it to get deeper. Then, it-- it shifts around, not drawing back out of him at all, but _moving_ , so weird and filling. Rhys starts to narrow in on the sensation and everything tips into being too much between two heartbeats, the whine out of his mouth distressed and unhappy. 

The spores around him launch into action, petting him, sending shivery static over his skin, wrapping around his eyes until he can’t see. He feels like he’s being put into blinders, and is so goddamn relieved because it helps. He remembers how to breathe like that, all comforting touches and teasing laps against his folds. A tendril works down, running over his clit and drawing his attention away from the _weirdness_ inside him. 

As he relaxes, the tentacle starts shifting again, undulating and… widening? Maybe? It’s hard to focus on that sensation when one tendril is stroking his clit steadily, making him jerk and tense as he gets close, inner walls squeezing down on the thick intrusion. It goes from being too much for him to handle to not enough in the span of a minute, and Rhys starts to rock his hips in earnest, trying to get it, trying to come. 

He can’t. Or, he could, but the spores won’t let him. He’s so close and they soften their hold on him until its not enough to get him off. Cursing, Rhys keeps canting his hips, trying to chase after it. Each time, the tentacle manages to sink in just a bit more, making Rhys pant and whine at the _thickness_ , present and impossible to ignore. The moment of panic has passed and soon Rhys is fucking himself back against the thing in him, needing _something_ to get him there, willing to take even a tentacle burying ever deeper into him, further than any dick or toy has ever gotten. 

He _still_ doesn’t fucking come, and it’s agony. 

Eventually, the tentacle is as far into Rhys as it can apparently go, and between the double load in his belly and the tentacle, he feels so full, it starts to mess with his head. He almost feels like a full glass, in danger of tipping and spilling everything. It doesn’t make sense, even in the fuzzy cotton of his head, but he stills anyway, going limp. He’s teetering on the edge of orgasm, but it’s not _coming_ , they aren’t letting it. 

He’s so distracted and desperate, Rhys barely notices something moving down the tentacle. It’s little more than a slightly wider bulge pressing against him, then sliding inward. It’s not the like the syrup, he notices dimly, but defined round _somethings_ moving down the tentacle. 

It’s only then that the tendril comes back and traces electric sensation into his clit. Rhys throws his head back, gasping, almost silent, orgasm hitting him between breaths. He can’t move, can’t shift into it, body mostly useless under all the attention, and somehow that makes it all more intense. It’s given to him, and he just takes it, has no choice but to moan and suck in choked gasps. 

It feels like an hour later when he slumps back, breathing heavily. His _bones_ tingle, so good… Almost worth all the cruel teasing. 

He’s feeling… different. Fuller. As he lays still, drained and even more useless than usual, he can feel the tentacle in him and the bulges moving down it. Each one leaves the tentacle, settling dense and warm in him. 

Holy shit. They feel solid and hot and might be _eggs_ or something, holy shit. Distantly, through the haze of tiredness he feels after coming, he has to admit it was pretty clever, shielding the whole _laying eggs in him_ with an orgasm. 

More curious than anything, Rhys tries to clench down on the weight in him, and shudders at the feeling. It gets the tentacle to shift, sliding out and then back in, and Rhys moans at the feeling. As he tries to pull himself together, he sees another spore swoop in, its tentacle already extended. 

“Noo, no, can’t,” Rhys manages, trying to turn his head to the side. It doesn’t work; the tentacle follows him and he twists this way and that. It won’t relent, so Rhys does, parting his lips to let it in. This time, the tentacle just tucks into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue. He can look up and watches the glow work quickly down the tentacle, passing into his mouth. 

This time, he has to swallow, and does so quickly, big mouthfuls of gooey sweetness gushing into his mouth and down his throat. It tastes _amazing_ and Rhys lifts his head up to take more, ignoring the way his belly feels too big. For his trouble, the other spores pet him, running through his hair, fluttering over his shoulders and cheeks. He feels deliriously like he’s be rewarded for good behavior and shudders as that settles in him heavily. 

As he continues to swallow diligently, he feels the spore between his legs slide out of him, its tentacle slipping wetly out as his wetness eases its way. He can’t help clenching down on the empty feeling it leaves in its wake, a little upset. 

Then, another spore pushes in close, forcing his legs even wider apart. It’s less patient than the last one, shoving its tentacle into him so quickly, Rhys jerks and moans, distracting from being force-fed momentarily. The sweet nectar escapes his mouth, slipping past his numb lips and soaking into his skin, seeping down, running in rivulets down his neck and onto his chest. 

The tentacle in him stirs around, rocking in and out a few times. It’s bigger than the last one, enough Rhys notices it almost immediately, and it takes time for it to follow the lead of the first spore, fucking deeper and deeper into Rhys. Around it, Rhys’ legs shake, the muscles in his stomach tensing as he’s forced to take more and more. 

Its then that the tentacle in his mouth eases out. Rhys laps at it as it goes, gasping wetly as soon as his mouth is free. He licks his lips, sighing. 

He feels completely out of it, held up in a half-curl by the spores, arms and legs totally limp in the tendrils’ grasp. All he can do is hang there and watch the spore between his legs shift and move, feeling every motion acutely inside. Soon, the spore settles, its tendrils anchoring it in place, and Rhys gasps as more eggs pass down its tentacle, sliding deep inside, further than he knew was possible. 

There’s enough of them that Rhys is really starting to feel them, all pressed together in a clutch inside him. They’re warm and soft enough to be squeezed together into an almost solid mass. It slowly grows as more eggs are added, and Rhys shivers at how _present_ it feels. He’s never been so aware of his own body in his life, with his belly heavy with thick nectar and his-- his womb? Someplace deep inside him just as heavy with eggs. 

At least it feels good. The tentacle in him now is a fat one, and he can feel every egg that passes through it, nudging his clit. He can’t help but push back against it, huffing for breath. It’s awful, he can feel how big he’s getting, and it’s an effort to move now against his solid weight. He’s sticky and glowing from the nectar that dripped out of his mouth, he’s a _mess_. 

He still grinds against the tentacle until he comes. 

The spore using him finishes depositing its eggs in him and floats away. 

Rhys lets out a sob as a third takes its place, but he’s dripping his own wetness as well as the spore’s fluids out of him with every labored breath he takes, and the new tentacle doesn’t hurt at all as it pushes into him and starts the process over again, fucking itself in further and further before the eggs start coming. 

He loses track of time for a while. His head lolls back, eyes shut as he tries to rest despite the continuous fucking and laying going on. He needs a break, exhausted and used. For his own sanity, he stops counting how many spores move in to-- to breed him. The only measure of time passing is the way he can feel himself swelling. It’s gradual and easy, but an inescapable reality of his situation. 

Eventually, his arms lose some of their paralysis. He’s weak, but his can _move_ and it’s a revelation. 

His hands splay wide across his belly as he lifts his head again at last, looking at the state he’s in. He looks like he’s swallowed a watermelon, the curve set low on his belly clear. His skin feels tight and he rubs his palms over it, moaning faintly. 

In the dark, surrounded by glowing creatures, it’s hard to tell, but after staring for a while, Rhys realizes he can see something glowing inside him. Its faint through his skin and muscles, but it’s definitely there. 

He’d probably be hysterical if he wasn’t so worn out and tired. 

As he’s marveling at the fact he’s _glowing_ , a tendril wraps around his forehead, drawing his head back. A tentacle shoves into his mouth brusquely, and Rhys jerks in surprise. No no no, he’s so full, he can’t take more, he feels like he weighs a ton, he can’t-- 

Rhys lifts his hands to push against the spore above him only for a tendril to wrap around each of his wrists. He’s pushed and dragged flat onto his back, writhing as more nectar’s pushed down his sore throat. Below, he feels yet another spore latch onto his hips, the sixth or sixteenth to do so, he has no idea. As he struggles, more tendrils flutter over him, at least two of them rubbing his folds and clit until he’s coming again, helpless and dropping headfirst into soft darkness. 

 

* * *

 

When he comes to, it’s over. 

Rhys is slow to wake, and even slower to dare opening his eyes. It’s easier to be still. Safer. He won’t have to face reality if he just lies there. 

His ECHOeye is blinking with more messages for him to read. He cancels the notifications for now, the flashing inside his eyelid more annoying than anything. 

He knows he needs to get out of here, back to the facility. He needs to read every single file he has on this situation. If something’s seriously wrong, it’s going to be over a day’s drive to the nearest settlement. 

Carefully, oh so carefully, Rhys opens his eyes and peeks down at himself. 

In his head, he’d worried he would be _huge_ , like a wrecking ball was shoved into his body. The actual size of his belly is-- it’s _very stark_ , the swell obvious, almost unreal looking. But it’s not what he feared. 

Until he tries to move, anyway. That takes a lot of effort, rolling onto his side and then carefully onto his hands and knees. There’s luckily a tree nearby and he grasps it with both hands, bracing himself as he staggers to his feet on shaking legs. Now, _now_ he feels unbelievably heavy, but he can walk and that’s all that matters. 

It’s slow progress, making his way back. More than once, he has to stop, slumping onto a handy rock or fallen tree, catching his breath with both his hands cupping his belly. The only good thing is the nectar that’s obviously still in him. It keeps him warm as he meanders back. 

Taking the elevator back up to the observation deck, Rhys wobbles in and collapses onto the closest chair. There, he shuts his eyes and takes a nap, palm on his stomach. He’s earned the nap. 

When he’s finally up for it, he sits in front of the computer terminal. By now, his decryption program has finished, all of the Dome’s projects laid bare for him. 

Rhys pulls up the files on the spores first, of course. 

 

According to the files, the spores came from a far region of Pandora, Aegrus. A small group was migrated to the Dome, which was considered a safe place for study. The spores couldn’t survive in cold temperatures, so even if they escaped the Dome, they’d die in the outside world. 

The spores came in various elemental varieties, and Atlas hoped to harness them for experimentation, enhancing those elements in their weaponry and shields. Fair enough. 

What the team didn’t anticipate was that the spores would start dying out quickly despite the best attempts at keeping their numbers up. When only a handful remained, that’s when the disappearances started. 

The first was one of the xenobiologists. She was taken by the spores, out of the range of the sensors. As the remaining team members waited for approval to go in with lethal force to save her, she returned, dazed but healthy, albeit implanted with eggs. 

The eggs were removed and studied. Apparently the spores only procreated through the use of a host, and since the spores had been moved to a new environment without their usual host options, the local humans were picked as the next best host. 

Outside the host’s body, the eggs dried up and died. 

Then, more disappearances and more returned, egged-up Atlas personnel. When someone from the security team laid their spore eggs safely, parameters… changed.

 

_Addendum 50: I cannot believe I am recording this shit. This planet is a madhouse and Atlas moreso._  

_We’ve decided to leave high command out of the loop on this one, but we’re slowly repopulating the spore population. We have a list of volunteers. We’re allowing two personnel at a time so the entire team doesn’t wind up knocked up and useless for two weeks._  

_I hate this planet._

 

Rhys sat back in his chair, drumming his fingers on his stomach. He was still glowing. Apparently that would stick around until the eggs were ready. The reports claimed they were painless to lay. 

So. At least he didn’t have to go find a Pandoran doctor, explain that he’d gotten kidnapped and egged up by floaty jellyfish creatures, and get help with the whole egg situation. It’d… be fine.

All he had to do was wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Ending this one here. Next chapter will dial things up a bit more on the dirtybadwrong scale. If that's not your game, then stop reading here.


End file.
